


mouths, utterly lovely

by crackthesky



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Curses, F/M, One Shot, Vaginal Sex, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22315300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackthesky/pseuds/crackthesky
Summary: you have the hunger of a curse tucked away beneath your tongue.the village calls upon a Witcher, tells him that you are something else, something wicked, a monster hiding in plain sight.he disagrees.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 46
Kudos: 496





	mouths, utterly lovely

You know he is coming.

They have not been quiet about this summoning of a Witcher. The alderman bleats it across the village green as you work your way through the market, plucking at leafy greens to test their strength, pressing your thumb against the soft fuzz of a plush summer peach. The stall owners do not let you press your coin into their hands; you let it clatter against the wooden counters, listen to the shrill scrape as they spin into stillness.

How much coin are you worth, you wonder. You hope the Witcher takes them for every ounce of it.

 _You are all mouth_ , your mother used to tell you. The fondness there teetered each time she spoke, a softly swinging pendulum that looped in soft circles, wandering from the sharp bite of frustration to infinite, kind gentleness and then back again.

You are all mouth, you know, but no one has ever said it with the same cadence of your mother, with the same quiet understanding. She has watched you with all the delicate tenderness of a fawn on the verge of fleeing, white tail raised like a flag of danger, something trembling behind her wide, wide eyes. It is nothing as simple as fear, though it is fear all the same. Your mother knows what happens next. 

The hunger that has nestled just below your breastbone since the day you were born requires a mouth spread wide, teeth bared against the summer sun, ready to swallow down the longest day until there is nothing left but a cold winter’s night. The villagers have always quailed before it, until now.

The Witcher comes a scant handful of days before Midsummer.

You see him as you duck out of the apothecary, the one place in the village that has the warmth of a home. Your fingers tighten around the handle of your basket until the wicker pattern is indented into your skin. Some part of you had held onto hope that they wouldn’t truly go to this place.

But they have; the Witcher is proof of that. He’s tall and broad enough to remind you of the monoliths hidden in the forest, the stones that jut up from the mossy ground as if they have always been there, quiet and watchful. He could be stone too, you think. 

He is speaking to the alderman. You cannot see more than the faintest hint of his profile, a whisper of his carved jawline, but from the hushed whispers of the nearby laundry maids, he is as handsome as that chiseled jaw predicts. The Witcher turns just enough, and he is indeed handsome. His eyes - the color of the sun filtered through dark honey, all achingly rich gold - flit across you for the briefest moment, settle for a breath at the hollow of your throat, at the sheen of sweat that gilds it.

You turn away and walk towards your home. You will see him soon enough.

He comes that night.

The stew has just come to a simmer, the fire crackling beneath it. You hum to yourself as you slice chunks of meat into the pot. It’s good meat - thickly marbled with fat and gleaming claret in the firelight - and you have made enough for two.

“Are you going to come in?” you ask him. You’ve left the door flung wide, a gaping maw of space, a welcome, a resignation to your fate, and a warning. The stew bubbles thickly. You lean over the pot and stir it, lifting the wooden spoon to your lips and taking a small sip. 

He enters, his footfalls loud on the wooden floors, and you wonder if he has to remember to make noise.

“You are different than I expected,” he says. His voice rumbles through you like a rockslide. 

“I often am.”

He grunts.

You turn around to face him for the first time, and your breath catches. He’s powerfully built, wears strength like a cloak, and firelight plays across his face like a lover, kissing him with flickers of light. The shadows sharpen his cheekbones. Those eyes - like thick, clear amber, encasing and preserving you - are keen. You think he may look at you and see a hint of the monster under your skin, but the flaying sensation of his eyes is a fleeting one, like heat lightning flashing between heavy grey clouds. 

His mouth, though. His mouth is soft at the edges, a hint of gentleness tucked up away in the corner of his lips like a secret. You ache to pry it loose and swallow it down. You have only ever wanted to be fed something other than poison.

“Will you tell me your name?” you ask.

“Geralt of Rivia.”

“Geralt,” you muse, rolling the name slow and hot and sweet over your tongue until you can taste it. His eyes darken. You give him your own name in return; you have long known that gift should be met with gift. “Will you stay for supper?”

From anyone else, you would call the sound he makes a hum of agreement. From Geralt, it is more rocks tumbling against each other.

You turn back to the stew - you can feel his eyes upon you like a brand, can feel them as if they are fingers slipping beneath your bodice to skim against your bare skin, can feel heat gathering low in your stomach - and collect two wooden bowls. 

“What have they told you I am?” you ask. “Succubus?” 

It seems likely. Men are so open with their appetites until you say no, and then they were never hungry for you at all. It stands to reason, then, that it is your own voracious appetite that had devoured them, had cast a spell upon them.

“Succubi have horns,” he tells you. “I told the alderman that yours seem to be particularly well-hidden.”

“Bruxa, then?”

He grunts. “No.”

“What did they tell you I was, then, when they brought you to town to deal with me?”

“It hardly matters,” Geralt tells you. “You are no monster.”

“The village thinks I am.”

“Humans like to make monsters where there are none, sometimes.”

You go still. The village has pressed you into something monstrous, but they do not recognize their own fingerprints upon your skin. That he has seen it so easily cleaves you to the bone. “They have made a false monster of you, too,” you say, setting the bowls down on the hearth. You know what they say about Witchers. 

Geralt does not reply.

You ladle the stew into the bowls. “It is not solely their fault,” you say. “As much as I would like it to be.”

“You know that you are cursed, then.”

You hum a quiet agreement as you place the bowls on the table. He makes no move to it, simply stands just beyond the frame of your doorway. It is a stupid thing, this curse, something too slippery to pin down, nothing as obvious as a striga or a blight contained to only one farm.

“Few will see me as I am,” you say. “For most, I will distort like rippling water and they will only see the worst of me. To them, I am never clear. I will always be hungry for more than I can get. Will always feel a gnawing beneath my breastbone, will be sharp with appetite. Others will always see that hunger in me and will not understand. At the core of me, I am all mouth. As it was for my mother, too.” 

“There are worse things in this world than appetite.”

You pause. “Not to some.”

“Hmmm.”

You cross the room and slide past him to shut the door. He turns with you, keeping you in his sight, though he seems at ease. He does not move enough to keep his distance; you can feel the heat of him as you slip past, just a sliver of space between you.

Beside him, the breadth of him is more intense, the muscle of him obvious even under his leathers. You peer at him through your eyelashes. There’s dirt smudged on his cheek, just a hint of it, and you reach out without thinking.

Geralt catches you by the wrist. He holds your hand aloft between the two of you. The grip is firm but careful, his fingers spanning your wrist, his calloused thumb pressing against the delicate, thin skin of your inner wrist. He strokes. Just once, a testing touch, the sensation of it fluttering up your spine. He tilts his head, his golden eyes pinning you in place. Beneath the press of his thumb, your pulse is skittering.

“Why are you still here, Geralt of Rivia?” you whisper.

“You invited me to supper,” he says.

You reach forward again with the same hand. You are always hungry for more than you can get. Geralt lets you, his fingers still a shackle on your wrist, still able to restrain. You keep his gaze as you smear the dirt away with your thumb. 

When you pull back, he drops your hand. For a heartbeat, the two of you simply stand there. The fire is blazing still; in the summer heat, there is a sheen of sweat on both of you. 

Geralt’s eyes darken. He extends a hand towards you, slowly, watching you for protest. You wait.

He rests his thumb against your lips. It’s the same one he’d stroked across your pulse. You part your lips, just slightly, not enough to take his thumb into your mouth but enough to suggest. 

He kisses you then, his thumb sweeping up until his hand is cradling your cheek. He has an urgent mouth, a lovely mouth, and you meet him with your own hunger. You graze your teeth across the flesh of his lower lip, catching it at the edges, and the sound that rumbles from him is sharp-edged. He pulls you close, until his armor is flat against you, your bodice rucked up against it, the material catching at your skin.

You wind your fingers through his hair - it reminds you of an early frost, coating the fallen leaves white, white, white - and tilt his head so that you have better access, parting your lips for him and flicking your tongue across his lips until he opens for you, too. You turn him as best as you can, trying to find the best angle.

Geralt grunts against your lips as you feather a hand down to his leather armor, tugging at one of the ties. He pulls back, his mouth red and wet, and pulls off his armor with brutal efficiency, his big hands nimble. He comes back to you quickly. He finds your mouth again, all driven heat, and you feel your bodice come loose as he pulls at the ties of it. 

He cages you against the table, chivvying you back until your hips bump up against it. Geralt’s hands are steady as he lifts you, his grip firm on your hips, one hand cupping your ass and sliding low until his fingers dig in at the crease of your thigh. You sigh against his lips. He drops you onto the table and nudges between your legs.

You pull back from him. “I have a bed, Geralt,” you say, laying a biting kiss where his neck and shoulder meet. 

“Too far,” he grunts. You laugh softly, pulling him back up to your lips, your hands bracketing his handsome face. He feels so real against you, all skin and a fine layer of sweat, with hungry eyes and a wicked tilt to his mouth as it presses against yours. Your bodice falls away - even in the summer’s warmth, your nipples go tight at the sudden touch of cooler air - and he breaks away to lean down to scrape his teeth against your collarbone. 

Your fingers fumble against his shirt, tugging at it until he pulls back to cast it off himself. You run a thumb over his nipple and catch the sound he makes with your mouth. You weave a hand through his hair and tug it gently. “It’s not,” you murmur. “And splinters have a way of ruining the fun.”

He grunts, but pulls back.

The journey to your bed, while not far, is a long one. You keep getting caught up in each other, in kisses, in the feel of his mouth on your neck and his hand firm against your breast, his fingers circling your nipple, the spark of it drawing a tight whine from you that make him curse, in sliding your hand down to wrap your fingers around his thick, heated cock, in shedding the remains of your clothing.

The two of you tumble into bed, the old frame groaning under your combined weights. You end up on top, straddling one thick thigh, and he scoffs at your smile. He drags you forward by the hips, your cunt grinding against his thigh, the bliss of the pressure making you rock in place. His fingers find your cunt, slick and waiting, and you press your forehead against his chest, scraping your teeth against the muscles as he circles you with a single finger before pressing inside.

You hiss out a mix of a curse and a prayer. His finger is wide, made to feel wider with the gap between now and the last time you were sated with sex. He hushes you with his mouth as he begins to move, the heel of his hand pressed against your clit, sending sensation sparking up your spine.

You palm his thick cock, falling forward and bracing yourself above him with one arm so that you can wrap your hand around it. Geralt groans, the sound resonating through you, and you glide your hand over him, brushing your fingertips over the head of his cock. You press a kiss against his chest as you stroke him, rolling your tongue over his nipple, lightly scraping with your teeth until he curses.

His voice has gone to gravel. The sound of it arrows through you, makes you tighten briefly around his finger.

One finger becomes two, and two becomes three, stretching you softly, his blunt fingers thick against your walls. The fullness of it makes you pant. You release his cock and reach up for him, winding your fingers through his white hair once more and pulling him down to you, coaxing his mouth open until he lets you devour him.

“Geralt,” you say, and in your mouth, his name is a feast.

His golden eyes darken, go molten, and you find yourself on your back. 

Geralt nudges himself between your legs. Rising above you like this, he reminds you of tales of old, the fading firelight flickering over him and outlining the power of his form, catching against the gleam of sweat. 

You reach out and he stills. You grasp his cock and guide him to you, pressing just enough until you can feel yourself spreading wide around the tip of him. “Geralt,” you say again, and he sinks into you slowly, lets you consume him. 

You have little interest in slow, though, with the drag of his cock inside of you lighting you up, and the grit of his voice as he pushes your name through his lips. It is easy to wrap your legs around his hips, even with the twinge of the stretch of him within you. You roll your hips against him, and he hisses out a breath. He braces himself over you, his hair hanging down like a curtain of snow, and you reach up to cup his face and pull him down for a kiss.

The two of you start more slowly than you’d like, trying to learn each other’s rhythms. A harder thrust from him means that you hit your head on the headboard; underneath him, you cannot roll your hips in the exact way that you like. Still, your thighs are tightening around his hips and he is panting, and he is spreading you so well, so thickly, that you could be lost in it. He is not gentle, per se, but he is softer than you had expected from him.

“Geralt,” you say, slinging an arm over his back and sucking a kiss into the flesh just below his ear. “I am not delicate.”

He hooks his arms around your waist and leans back on his knees, bringing you with him until you are straddling him, each inch of you pressed up against him. “I know,” he says, and then he fucks up into you hard.

It knocks the breath from you, sends pleasure flitting across every nerve you have. From the tilt of his lips, he knows it. “Fuck,” you gasp.

Geralt pulls you into a brief kiss and then sets his teeth against your neck, scraping against the muscle. You grind down on him, circling slowly, letting him spear deep, deep, deep. He groans against your neck.

He shifts you higher on him, his hands on your hips, pressing you down to meet every thrust. You tangle your hands in his hair again, bracing yourself on him as best as you can. His cock is thick enough you can feel it from every angle. Geralt’s mouth is everywhere on you, sucking at your skin, just a hint of teeth peeking through. 

You roll against him, against the heat of his cock, and you can feel yourself tightening around him, can feel your thighs tensing as the pleasure builds, spreading through you like a wildfire.

Then Geralt’s hand is against your cunt again, his fingers circling and nudging at your clit until lightning starts to flicker up your spine. You direct his lips back to yours, lick into his mouth, swallow his groans down like they are a meal. 

“Fuck,” he grits out against your lips. “Fuck.”

He snaps his hips up, the hand at your hip pressing you down, down against the power of his movement, his fingers stroking over your clit, and the lightning playing across your spine strikes ground. You come with his name spilling from your lips like wine. It is a small shattering, with the way your hips shake against his grip and how your thighs tense around him. Geralt gentles his touch on your clit but still circles it, the pleasure slowly seeping from you. He thrusts hard, panting now, and you press your lips against the pulse in his throat.

He rumbles your name as he comes. His hips stutter against you, his fingertips digging into the plush of your hips, holding you firm against him. You drape your arms around his neck, pressing your forehead against his cheek as you pant. 

It does not surprise you that Geralt recovers first. You fall back onto the mattress with a breathy laugh when he lets go of you, already feeling the ache radiating through your thighs. The bed frame groans as he settles next to you. You should wash, you know, but you are hardly interested in getting to your feet, and some part of you is already brimming with greedy hunger once more.

When you turn towards Geralt, he is already watching you. It is hard to read his face in the fading firelight. It would have perhaps been hard in full light, too, you think. 

You reach out and tap a finger against the medallion strung around his neck. “They offered good coin?”

He pauses.

“I want to know,” you whisper.

Those amber eyes rove over you, lingering on the hollow of your neck before returning to meet your own gaze. “They did,” Geralt says. His expression does not change, but there is something like sorrow lining his mouth.

“Ah,” you murmur. “I see.”

“You know you cannot stay.”

“Mmm,” you hum, stretching your whole frame long across the bed, feeling the give of your muscles as the tension leaks from you. Your eyelids are heavy now, fluttering against the beckoning call of sleep. “No, I cannot, not after this.” You nuzzle down into the thin pillow, knowing you will regret not washing in the morning. “You can stay, though, for now.”

Geralt grunts, but he does not rise from your bed, nor does he protest when you pull the linen sheet up to sink over you both like a shroud. You fade into sleep with the warmth of him radiating against your side.

He stays for three days. The days are slow and unhindered - you have never had such a sense of freedom as you do with him walking with you, all bristling energy, a silent dare for those foolish enough to come near - and the nights just as slow, laced through with heat. You learn more of the rhythm of his hips and the heat of his cock, of the brush of his fingers against your cunt and the firm touch of his hand cupping you. His fingers tangle in your hair like briars, tugging you to fit into the curve of him as he rolls against you, spearing deep. You set your teeth against his neck as you come with a gasp, biting down, as if you can consume a part of him to carry with you always.

The morning of the fourth day, you wake alone. It does not bother you. His saddlebags still sit at the end of your bed; there is a dagger resting on the hearth. 

He returns just before midday. There is a dappled mare behind him, her eyes sweet. “Geralt,” you say.

He grunts.

“Geralt. There is a horse behind you.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

You exhale through your nose. “It is not your horse.”

“No,” he says simply. “It is yours.”

You still. Geralt waits, his eyes gleaming gold in the sun’s gentle rays, waiting for your choice. You turn on your heel and return to the house without a word.

It does not take you long to pack. When you pull your coin from the loose brick at the back of the hearth, it is diminished, but more than enough. There’s a small flash of irritation, but most of you is relieved that he used your coin and not his.

You will not go with him, that much you know. That is not his intention. 

The mare whickers as you swing up into the saddle, but she settles under your gentle hand. Geralt has tied Roach nearby; she is not tacked up. He will make sure you have time.

Geralt stares up at you, his large hand spanning your knee. It is warm through your skirts. His jaw works for a moment, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

“You are clear to me,” he tells you.

You close your eyes for a breath. His stubble scrapes against your palm as you cup his cheek, as you set your palm against that tense jawline. You lean down to him and kiss him, gentle and slow, opening to him when he presses harder into it, as if he could not bear the softness, as if he needs to have heat to it instead. 

“Thank you,” you murmur against his lips. 

He pulls away and hands you the reins that had been wound around his fist.

“Ride,” Geralt says to you, his voice sharp with something you cannot make sense of. “Let the clearest vision they have of you be you leaving them behind.”

You lean down once more and press a final kiss to his lips.

Then you spur your mare into a trot, building to a gallop, and you do not look back.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be short. beginning to think I like Jaskier so much because - like him - i'm incapable of shutting up.
> 
> this is also what happens when i re-read some of my favorite lines of poetry (specifically plath's 'eaten or rotten. i am all mouth' line) and am just...committed to being incredibly self-indulgent and decide to see if I can still write any type of smut at all.
> 
> plus i am a terrible procrastinator, especially when i have chapters of other stories to write.


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